


Vice / Cruelty

by yoshizora



Series: Tame the Phoenix [2]
Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29228829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: Jin dwells on his hypocrisy as Malos does something unforgivable. / Brighid confronts Mòrag, and realizes some uncomfortable truths.
Relationships: Brighid/Mòrag Ladair
Series: Tame the Phoenix [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2146122
Comments: 11
Kudos: 25





	Vice / Cruelty

**Author's Note:**

> i was thinking about this AU again and tbh i just wanted some extra saucy moraghid, but it was honestly very refreshing to write something like this after a month of nonstop fluff ahahah
> 
> you don't have to read [the first piece](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25346908) to really understand what's happening. for quick context:
> 
> \- jin stole brighid's core crystal after the gormotti war ended and resonated with her  
> \- brighid meets morag during a heist (see the linked fic) and is ~intrigued~ by her overwhelming strength  
> \- brighid ditches torna to go talk to morag afterward and that's where the second half of this fic picks up on

There’s still soot and ash in Jin’s hair, and on his skin and in the crevices between his armor and in the folds of his clothes. Malos hasn’t told him to go clean up, so he doesn’t, he just sits there and stares at the dull Core Crystal in his hands.

Malos kicks his feet up on the table and leans back in his seat. With one hand, he flips open the journal. With the other hand, he grabs an ink pen that Akhos had brought out at his command. He eyes Jin somewhat dourly over the top of the book, but Jin can tell he’s smirking. That look on his face is the same one he’d seen when they first met.

Jin breaks his gaze to turn his attention back to the Core Crystal. A deep regret lances through him with surgical precision, but he deliberately ignores the pain and waits.

“… Well, if you two aren’t going to break the silence!” Akhos cheerfully says. Like a child brought to a candy store, he stares at Malos expectantly, as if he’s waiting for a new toy. He’s been like that ever since Jin came back. “Would it kill you to share a little, Malos? I’m _dying_ to know what she wrote!”

“Hey, this is private stuff,” Malos laughs, flipping through the pages until he’s close to the back cover. “Oh. Here we go— her last entry.”

Jin wants to tell him to shut up, that he has no right to desecrate another Blade’s past memory like this, but what does he know? He’s just a hypocrite. The evidence is right there in his hands, dull as a rock.

“ _The Gormotti War is reaching its end at last. I can feel it,_ ” Malos reads out loud, thankfully without a falsetto. Akhos snickers and rests his chin on his hands. “ _I hope to return to Alba Cavanich as soon as possible. His Majesty has fallen ill, and while I may not have been particularly close to my Driver of this lifetime…_ hm, this is just a bunch of navel gazing.”

“How tragic!” Akhos sighs. His voice is laced with sarcasm.

“Alright, let’s get to work,” Malos says, though he seems to be speaking more to himself than to Akhos or Jin at this point. He brings the tip of the pen to his tongue and thumbs through the pages, eyes scanning. Here and there he laughs out loud or scoffs at something he reads, and crosses out something with great, violent strokes of the pen.

Each scratch of the metal nub against paper is like a knife carving into Jin’s skin, over and over again. He closes his eyes and thinks of the journal he had left in that little cabin. It’s probably dissolved into mush below the Cloud Sea by now.

Back then, he envied Brighid. She was just like him, really, lauded as a national treasure to serve as a weapon of war. Oh, the legends they must have spoken of them, two of Alrest’s most powerful Blades working together to take down the Aegis! But she had the privilege of all her recorded memories locked away for safekeeping, all for her to read. Jin had envied her, then he saw the way she must have carried that fear across thousands of years of reincarnations, and then he wasn’t sure how he felt anymore.

Where would she have ended up, if she had resonated with an illegal Driver like he did?

Without thinking, Jin brings his palm up over his chest.

_(You keep a journal as well, Jin? To be honest, it’s reassuring to know that I’m not the only Blade who thinks of such things.)_

She didn’t really understand. How could she?

The sound of paper tearing makes him jolt. His head snaps up and his mouth slightly opens in genuine shock.

Malos is ripping pages out from Brighid’s journal.

“…That’s diabolical, even for you,” Akhos tuts, his amusement giving way to awkward discomfort. He knows full well how much a Blade’s memory truly means to them. To watch Malos so casually mutilate Brighid’s journal in front of them is heresy. To do nothing about it is worse.

Akhos mumbles something about how it’s probably a good thing that Mikhail and Perdido aren’t here to see this.

“It’s all propaganda. She’s been lying to herself, _poor thing,_ ” Malos flatly says, crushing the loose pages in his hand to destroy. Not even ashes are left when he uncurls his fist. “What a pathetic Blade, completely won over by her human masters. Hey Jin, are you really sure about this?”

Jin can’t bring himself to make any comment about what Malos is doing. “Yeah.”

“Alright, if you say so. What about that other one? The water man. We could probably grab him, too.”

“He… was too complacent. He wouldn’t understand what we’re doing."

His fingers tighten around the Core Crystal. If he concentrates hard enough, he thinks he can hear Brighid’s voice. But no matter which way he imagines it, he can’t hear what she’s saying to him.

.

.

.

_ten years later_

.

.

.

Mòrag is quick on her feet, even with a freshly-dressed wound and without a boost of ether. She ducks low under Brighid’s sweeping arm and tackles her, shoulder digging into the soft part of her midsection, but Brighid doesn’t tumble as she’d intended. Instead, she grabs the back of Mòrag’s shirt and lifts her clear off the ground, using the momentum to swing around and slam her into a table.

Mòrag cries out in pain. Her wound is wet again— oh, the palace healers are going to be cross with her.

“It’s a shame. I thought you were exceptionally powerful, but it looks like all your strength comes from a mere gimmick,” Brighid says, glancing to the charged blade leaning against the wall.

“Do not… underestimate me…” Mòrag gasps, pushing herself up on unsteady legs. She grits her teeth to hold back a whimper of pain; her ribs had collided with the edge of the table. Nothing broken, but the bruises are going to be nasty.

It feels like she’s fighting Brighid naked. She might as well be. Without her armor, and without her weapon and ether phials, she only has her speed and fists. Neither of those could land so much as a single hit against the likes of this Blade.

Brighid slowly walks over. She hasn’t conjured her whipswords, but her hands are ablaze.

“You said you wanted to talk!” Mòrag says, if only to buy herself some time. Or maybe if she chooses her words wisely, Brighid won’t kill her or inflict a permanent wound. So much for a temporary peace treaty. She backs away at the same pace, one arm gingerly wrapped around her midriff.

“I did.”

Brighid is too fast. She closes the gap and grabs Mòrag by the collar of her shirt, and throws her again clear across the room— she lands on her bed, and Mòrag isn’t sure if she’s fortunate or if Brighid had aimed intentionally. Mòrag bounces on the mattress and lies there, panting and trying to ignore the sharp pain in her stomach. Damn bed. It’s too comfortable. Maybe this wouldn’t be the worst place to die.

A shadow falls over her eyes. Brighid had climbed up onto the bed to kneel above her, placing a searing hand over her neck. Not to choke, but to prevent her from moving anywhere.

It doesn’t hurt.

“Consider this as payback, for what you people did to my journal,” Brighid hisses down at her, face so close that Mòrag can count her eyelashes. “And you had the nerve to claim you would have been my Driver?”

 _What?_ Mòrag’s eyes widen.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb!” Without removing the hand clamped down on Mòrag’s neck, Brighid reaches behind herself and pulls out a worn journal she must have been carrying on the inside of her cloak. She waves it over Mòrag’s face, like she’s planning to slap her with it. Her voice is trembling with anger. “You humans would never understand… you wouldn’t even care! Haven’t you ever once considered what keeping a journal would mean to a Blade who keeps losing their memories?! Yet you’ve vandalized— _destroyed_ what I had written, and pretended that you’ve been doing me a great favor by letting me keep it lifetime after lifetime!”

“What did you scribble over? What did you rip out? Was it all to make sure I’d stay loyal to Mor Ardain? To have me dance like a puppet and do all your dirty bidding in your worthless human wars?!”

Brighid’s hand is steadily pressing down with more pressure. Mòrag opens and closes her mouth, too stunned to argue, too furious at being accused of such a grave crime.

The imperial family had always vowed to protect the Jewel of Mor Ardain’s records of herself! It had been one of the first things she’d been taught, back before Niall was born and everyone was expecting her to become their next leader.

All her records! That’s it—

Mòrag grabs Brighid’s wrist. Her skin sizzles at the contact, yet she feels no burn.

“ _Unhand me!_ ”

She drives a knee up into Brighid’s gut. That actually seems to catch her by surprise, just enough for her grip to loosen and for Mòrag to shove her off. Brighid still hasn’t let go of her journal; in fact, she draws it close to herself, protectively, which gives Mòrag the perfect chance to tackle her whole weight against her and flip their positions.

Mòrag straddles her, but makes no movement to grab her neck just as Brighid had done. Breathing hard, she brushes an errant strand of hair away from her face and glares down at Brighid.

“If you would allow me to _explain,_ ” Mòrag snaps. Brighid could easily toss her off, but she doesn’t. Maybe she’s actually surprised that Mòrag managed to get her onto her back.

An uneasy feeling creeps over Mòrag. Someone _did_ vandalize Brighid’s precious journal, then framed the Ardainian royals for it. How long had Brighid been seeping in that fury? How long had she been planning to confront the people she thought were responsible?

Who lied to her?

“… Perhaps it would be better to show you, instead,” Mòrag says. Brighid is still clinging to her journal, glaring. Or, Mòrag thinks she’s glaring. Her brows are creased together so she must be— at any rate, she’s clearly angry, and Mòrag is cautious not to get up just yet.

But if Brighid actually wanted to kill her, she’s had plenty of opportunities. She could have stabbed her on the balcony, or strangled her to death, or beat her to death, or simply set her on fire. So she must be willing to listen. Mòrag relents and gets off of her with some difficulty, wincing.

“Show me what?” Brighid asks, sitting upright and pushing herself back against the pillows at the headboard.

“They’re in the archives. Please wait here, I’ll bring them to you. We can’t have you walking around the palace and causing a stir.” Mòrag limps over to her armoire and grabs some clothes to cover up her stained bandages. She doesn’t need the healers trying to herd her to the infirmary, or worse, back to her bedroom for them to see Brighid and panic. While she hastily brushes her hair to make herself look presentable and not like she was just wrestling with a Blade, Brighid makes herself comfortable with the pillows pulled around her like some sort of nest.

She glares suspiciously at Mòrag. But she’s no longer trying to throw her around the room, so that’s good enough for now.

* * *

Fortunately enough, no one she passes by stops her to chat or to ask her why she’s out of her room when she’s supposed to be resting. The guards know better than to suggest she’s acting out of line, and the healers must be in another part of the palace. She does pass by Aegaeon on one of his nightly rounds, but he only smiles and bows and keeps walking. He never ventures far from Niall’s room, so he won’t be a bother.

The archives are easy enough to get into. Mòrag finds what she was looking for, selects three volumes, and carries them back to her room.

Brighid is standing at her bookshelf. She whips around at the door opening, but only slightly relaxes when she sees it’s just Mòrag.

“Well? What is it?”

“Did you think the journal you carry is the only one you had written in?” Mòrag carefully lays down the journals on her desk side by side, each cover identically embossed and gilded. “One book would not be enough to contain your entire history, Brighid. Surely you must have thought about it.”

Brighid goes silent. She stares at the three books, completely unmoving, so still that Mòrag is almost tempted to snap her fingers in front of her face. But then she draws out her journal and places it beside them. Four in a row. All the same, except her current journal looks like it’s been through worse.

“I…”

“We _have_ protected your journals. It’s family tradition, really,” Mòrag says, folding her hands behind her back. “And I swear that none of us had ever read what you’ve written. It would be akin to reading an Emperor’s diary. Such transgressions are absolute taboo.”

Brighid lightly traces trembling fingertips over each book. All her prior rage is all gone, replaced by… such hurt confusion, that Mòrag feels her heart sink. She says nothing as Brighid reverently opens the first journal and turns each page, seeing no scribbled lines or ink blots or ripped paper.

Several minutes pass like that in silence. Brighid doesn’t sit down; she goes through each journal standing in the exact same spot, with Mòrag quietly observing her reactions.

Finally, she turns her head and speaks. “There’s more?”

Mòrag nods. “At least two dozen volumes, all kept under lock and key.”

She expects Brighid to grab her again, to demand to be taken to them or for the rest of it to be brought to her, but instead she drifts to the center of the room, staring straight ahead. Mòrag watches, suddenly apprehensive.

Then, Brighid is engulfed in a column of blazing fire that licks the ceiling.

_”I’LL KILL HIM.”_

The fire swirls around her, roaring, threatening to burn through the walls themselves. Mòrag shouts in alarm and brings an arm up to uselessly shield herself against the heat, gasping and choking.

_” **I’LL KILL HIM.** ”_

“Brighid!” Mòrag fights her way through the flames, against that searing inferno of azure fire, stumbling and struggling to breathe. “Brighid, _stop!_ ”

No use. Mòrag falls to her hands and knees, nearly blinded by the intense light. Oh, no, someone’s bound to notice. If the guards haven’t fallen asleep by now, surely the intense fire coming from the Special Inquisitor’s bedroom window would rouse somebody. She mustn’t let them— mustn’t let any of them realize the Jewel of Mor Ardain is here. They’d cry for her Core Crystal to be shattered, because such a dangerous Blade would be better off decommissioned than in the hands of some terrorists.

They’re all fools!

Mòrag drags herself over to her charged blade. She fumbles with the hilt and manages to yank out a good handful of phials— thank the Architect she always has them refilled after every battle. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe. Has it been a minute? Two minutes? Or merely several seconds?

Gripping just one phial between her teeth, she half crawls and half stumbles over to Brighid. Her hair is whipping around her like angry snakes, fists clenched tight and eyes wide open. Only then does Mòrag realize the fire isn’t actually destroying anything. Brighid must be trying to hold herself back to avoid incinerating everything in the room, including those journals left on Mòrag’s desk.

But the fire is drawing in all the oxygen. At this rate, Mòrag will die from suffocation instead of immolation.

Drawing upon what little strength she has left, Mòrag unfolds to her full height and yanks the cap off the phial between her teeth. The ether spills into her mouth. It’s been processed, but still scorches her as she swallows it all down. She can feel it churning inside her, struggling to find a hold where there isn’t any, seeping outward in an attempt to get through her skin. She concentrates and willingly directs the energy to gather into her fist.

She punches Brighid across her jaw.

The fire dissipates altogether.

“—Are you mad?!” Mòrag shouts, breathing hard. Her ears are ringing. “Temper thyself!”

Brighid stares right at her, then squints, then closes her eyes altogether. She collapses to her knees and wraps her arms tightly around herself, shuddering. The balcony door had been blown wide open during her firestorm, and now a cold breeze washes over them.

“They lied to me,” she says, her voice barely above a seething whisper. “I’m an idiot. I should have known they were lying all along.”

Mòrag feels ill. She’s going to have to either throw up later or exert that ether energy some other way. Maybe she’ll go punch some sandbags until her knuckles are raw. Not right now, though, not while Brighid is uncovering some horrible truths. That terrorist group had been a menace to all nations for some time now, but to think they had even…

Unsure what to say, she crouches beside Brighid and hesitantly lays a hand on her back.

“I _will_ take them down. For all the innocent lives they had taken, and for the life they stole from you,” Mòrag quietly says.

Brighid incredulously stares at her. She accepts the hand that Mòrag offers and they both stand. Mòrag wouldn’t blame her if she scoffed and left. The Jewel of Mor Ardain had always been fiercely independent, able to fight to her full potential without a Driver. In a way, that’s exactly what Mòrag had aspired for herself when she took the path she walks now.

But Brighid doesn’t leave. She squeezes Mòrag’s hand, without a smile.

“Then we’ll go together,” Brighid says.

* * *

The news comes just a few days later. Not that there was an intruder in the palace, or that the Special Inquisitor had subdued the Jewel of Mor Ardain, or even that a mysterious fire was spotted.

The news comes, that the other Aegis has been awakened.


End file.
